Don't You Cry(34)

Or maybe it’s mine.

But then I’m hit with another query: Does he even know who Esther is? Perhaps to him she is Jane. And so I say this, too, on the phone. I say that my roommate also goes by the pseudonym of Jane Girard—as I take a look at the petition for Esther’s name change and I’m stricken by how completely outlandish this is, admitting to some person I don’t know that my roommate has a double life I know nothing about. On his answering machine, no less. I pinch myself. Wake up!

I don’t wake up. Turns out, I’m already awake.

I press End on the phone, feeling miffed at how many questions I’ve formed—many—and how many answers I’ve found: none.

I think and I think. Where else could I possibly look for clues? I put in a call to Ben to see if he’s had any luck in tracking Esther’s family down, but again he doesn’t answer his phone. Damn Priya, drawing his attention away from the task at hand. I leave a message, and as I do, my eyes swerve to that photograph of Esther and me thumbtacked to the wall—Esther and me posing before the artificial Christmas tree for a selfie. Seeing the photo, my mind starts to wonder about that storage unit where we found the tree, that winter day we dragged the tree home through the snow. What else does Esther have hidden in there besides a Christmas tree? It’s not like I have the key to the storage unit, but still, I wonder if I’d be able to sweet-talk some employee into letting me inside. Doubtful. That’s the kind of thing Esther could do, but not me. I’m not the type of person able to sway someone with my bright eyes and a beguiling smile, which is Esther to a T.

That night, before I go to bed, I gather the collection of clues I’ve found and sit before the arched windows of the living room, going through them one by one, rereading the notes to My Dearest, familiarizing myself with the grieving process, running my fingers over the embossed name on the psychologist’s business card. It is dark outside, the lights of the city like a million sparkling golden stars. The number of neighbors who have curtains drawn is trifling; they, like me, sit in a fully illuminated room into which everyone outside can easily see. It’s part and parcel of city living or so I’ve learned, leaving the window coverings open wide to welcome in the city’s superabundant lights but also neighbors’ prying eyes. My mother, in our split-level suburban home, never would have gone for this. Curtains and blinds were closed at the first indicator of dusk, as soon as the stars and planets became visible to the naked eye and the sun began to dip. I stare out the window and admire it all: the lights of the buildings, the stars, the planets, the flashing wing lights of a passing jet plane, flying silently overhead at thirty thousand feet. From up above, I wonder what the passengers see. Do they see me?

And then my eyes return to the street, and I spy a sole figure standing in the shadows of Farragut Avenue, staring in the window, up at me. A woman, I believe, with strands of hair that flitter around her head like a dozen butterflies flapping their flimsy wings. At least that’s what I think I see, though it’s nighttime and I can’t see so well, but still, the figure doesn’t make me feel in the least bit scared or creeped out, but rather hopeful. Esther? The form stands far enough away from streetlights to be inconspicuous, to be invisible, to hide. But someone is there.

Please let it be Esther, I silently beg. She’s home; she’s come home. Or at least partway home, though she’s not yet convinced to come inside. I have to convince her. I rise quickly to my feet, a fish in a fishbowl, knowing that whoever is outside can see me with clarity, and for this reason I wave. I’m not scared.

I search for signs of movement, hoping and wishing that the sole figure will wave back, just a twitch of movement from the street, but no. There’s nothing. Not at first, anyway. But then there is. A wave, albeit a small wave, but still a wave. I’m just sure of it. Or at least I think I am.

Esther?

I drop the items in my hand and run quickly through the apartment door and down three misaligned flights of stairs before she has a chance to leave. If it’s Esther, I have to convince her to stay. I run. Stay, I think to myself and, Don’t go. I slip more than once, my shoes losing traction on the floor as I run faster than I’ve ever run in my whole entire life. I almost fall, catching the hand railing for support and righting myself before my rear end hits the ground. I come barreling out the main entranceway and onto the quiet street, down the steps and into the middle of the road without looking left or right for traffic.

“Esther,” I call out two times, the first a forced whisper—to avoid waking neighbors—and the second, a scream. But there is no response to either. I dart across the street, to the blackened expanse where thirty seconds ago I saw the figure—or thought I saw the figure, though now I can’t be sure—but there is no one there. Just parked cars, a line of flats and low-rise apartments, a vacant street. I look every which way, but there are no signs of life. Nothing. The street is barren. Whatever I saw, or whatever I thought I saw, is gone.

Esther isn’t here.

I turn sadly back to my own four-flat, but I don’t go straight home. Instead, I wander through the streets of Andersonville, past the places we like to hang, searching for Esther. Our favorite restaurants, our favorite coffee shop, the snazzy little gift and boutique shops that line Clark and Berwyn, cupping my hands around my eyes to peer inside and see if Esther is there, but in each and every one of these places, she’s not there.